“Go back,” commanded Byrne; “this is my funeral.”

“Not on your life,” replied Eddie Shorter.  “Those greasers don’t take no white man off’n El Orobo, while I’m here.  Get busy!  They’re comin’.”

And sure enough they were coming, and as they came their carbines popped and the bullets whizzed about the heads of the two Americans.  Grayson, too, had taken a hand upon the side of the Villistas.  From the bunkhouse other men were running rapidly in the direction of the fight, attracted by the first shots.

Billy and Eddie stood their ground, a few paces apart.  Two more of Villa’s men went down.  Grayson ran for cover.  Then Billy Byrne dropped the last of the Mexicans just as the men from the bunkhouse came panting upon the scene.  There were both Americans and Mexicans among them.  All were armed and weapons were ready in their hands.

They paused a short distance from the two men.  Eddie’s presence upon the side of the stranger saved Billy from instant death, for Eddie was well liked by both his Mexican and American fellow-workers.

“What’s the fuss?” asked an American.

Eddie told them, and when they learned that the boss’s daughter had been spirited away and that the ranch foreman was at the bottom of it the anger of the Americans rose to a dangerous pitch.

“Where is he?” someone asked.  They were gathered in a little cluster now about Billy Byrne and Shorter.

“I saw him duck behind the office building,” said Eddie.

“Come on,” said another.  “We’ll get him.”

“Someone get a rope.”  The men spoke in low, ordinary tones—­they appeared unexcited.  Determination was the most apparent characteristic of the group.  One of them ran back toward the bunkhouse for his rope.  The others walked slowly in the direction of the rear of the office building.  Grayson was not there.  The search proceeded.  The Americans were in advance.  The Mexicans kept in a group by themselves a little in rear of the others—­it was not their trouble.  If the gringos wanted to lynch another gringo, well and good—­that was the gringos’ business.  They would keep out of it, and they did.

Down past the bunkhouse and the cookhouse to the stables the searchers made their way.  Grayson could not be found.  In the stables one of the men made a discovery—­the foreman’s saddle had vanished.  Out in the corrals they went.  One of the men laughed—­the bars were down and the saddle horses gone.  Eddie Shorter presently pointed out across the pasture and the river to the skyline of the low bluffs beyond.  The others looked.  A horseman was just visible urging his mount upward to the crest, the two stood in silhouette against the morning sky pink with the new sun.

“That’s him,” said Eddie.

“Let him go,” said Billy Byrne.  “He won’t never come back and he ain’t worth chasin’.  Not while we got Miss Barbara to look after.  My horse is down there with yours.  I’m goin’ down to get him.  Will you come, Shorter?  I may need help—­I ain’t much with a rope yet.”